The Great Fire Of Rome
by Lookingkindofdumb
Summary: All he remembers is snippets, glasses filled with ruby rich wine catching the light; gleaming chandeliers and always, a new silk dress, her neck glittering with the stones his father liked to shower on her. Casefic. Tony centric.


Warnings: I cannot warn enough, an original character whom much of the case circles around suffers from severe, at times catatonic, depression.

There is reference to domestic abuse, to a previous miscarriage, directly caused by this. Also implied alcohol abuse and self medication.

The character is presumed to be suicidal, if not actively then definitely passively.

#

"Bond. James Bond." Tony says, voice as serious and adult as he can make it. He keeps a hand on the pistol tucked into one of his father's belts that was just perfect to use as a sash for weapons, like in all the western films always showing on TV.

"I have been expecting you." She says, spinning round and round in the swivel chair before coming to a stop and smirking at him. She's dressed in red silk, her hair loose and framing her face. Her crimson mouth frames very white teeth revealed during her wide, beaming smiles.

"Let them go and I'll go easy on you." Tony warns, pulling out his pistol, keeping it aimed to the ground. She throws back her head and cackles. She leans forward, their heads level height, and runs a finger down his cheek.

"So this is how it is going to be?" She muses, tipping him a wink and getting to her feet, bare toes on the cold marble floor. Tony's wearing his dress shoes, it fits with the costume and besides, they slide around wonderfully on the slick floors.

"It doesn't have to end this way." He offers, bringing the pistol up.

"It wouldn't be any fun if it didn't." She shrugs and Tony fires. She shrieks at the cold water and darts forward, grabbing him under the arms and tickling mercilessly. Tony gasps for breath between uncontrollable giggles but doesn't let go of his pistol. It's his only weapon and his mother doesn't fight fair.

She shrieks again as the icy cold water ruins her dress.

#

It's one of those cases.

The kind where everything is clear cut, where they plod into the beginning, step into the middle and follow the yellow brick road right to the end. Tony hates the clear cut cases.

Especially the clear cut ones where they know exactly who murdered the dead petty officer but don't have enough evidence to make the arrest.

Gibbs' intimidation tactics aren't making a dent, McGee's soft footed attempt yielded less than nothing and even veiled looks and the subtle menace Ziva emits won't break their guy.

Tony had talked when they first brought him in, chattered through the long car ride, sought meaningless opinions on films even he couldn't pretend to like. Played games, played the goof, no dice, nada. Not even a flicker, just amusement.

Yeah, none of them were going to be enough to prod this guy into admitting anything incriminating. Abby had gone over the available evidence with a fine toothed comb six times before being bullied into taking a well deserved break on her futon.

Gibbs was on the war path.

Tony was exhausted. They all were. Eyes gritty, so far past the yawning stage their throats were sore and ready to just drop.

"Tell me this guy is not going to walk out of here a free man." Gibbs snaps, dropping abandoned files on his desk and glaring around the bull pen. McGee starts from behind his desk, eyes going from dazed to aware in a snap. Hah! Tony knew he was secretly napping in front of his computer screen. That takes serious skill, sleeping with his eyes open, Tony is extremely jealous of Tim's hidden skills.

"This guy is not going to walk out of here a free man." Tony parrots, voice falsely bright. His attempt to lighten the atmosphere drops like a stone into the middle of the room.

No, more like a boulder, which he just so cleverly dropped onto his own foot. He holds back a wince as Gibbs turns slowly and fixes him with a look which is just half a degree short of glacial.

"And why not, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks, dangerously. Tony swallows. Or tries to, his throat is dry and scratchy. "We have no evidence linking him to the murder, only the smallest hint of something circumstantial even ties him to the case...so tell me what we have to nail his ass to the wall?!"

Tony jumps at the volume, knocking his coffee mug over (thankfully empty of liquid at this point when even ice cold coffee as thick as it is bitter is welcome) and sending a file of information off his desk and half into the bin, half onto the floor. He curses and scrabbles for the files, hoping there is nothing too nasty in his bin at the moment and offers a sheepish look to appease the bear.

"Well?"

Tony knows it is a trick question. He's never been able to let things lie. It's a character flaw that's probably saved his life and career more than once. (And put him in the line of fire more often than not.)

"Working on it boss!" He says smartly, biting back the first three responses that come to mind and going with a tried and true method of getting Gibbs to back off so he can re-group.

"Work harder." Gibbs snaps, shooting Tim and Ziva a glare before leaving, probably in search of coffee. The bitter brew is surprisingly elusive at four in the morning, especially if the break room has run out.

"Remember the days when we worked nine-to-five and came into work after a decent night of sleep?" Tony muses, rubbing his chin. He's almost at the point of using matchsticks to keep his eyes open.

"Only working from nine in the morning to five shows distinct laziness." Ziva scoffs half-heartedly, her chin propped up on her elbow where she is slumped over her desk.

"Nine-to-five." Tim moans wistfully.

"Yeah, I thought that was a daydream." Tony sighs. He's never actually worked nine-to-five, but it sure is looking tempting. Even stacking shelves would be better than this. Although, that would put a serious crimp in his style, he would not be able to afford his usual clothes on a minimum wage.

Tony looks at his computer screen but the picture blurs. He blinks to clear his vision. McGee has gone back to blankly staring at his desk, only the occasional blink a sign that he hasn't gone back to sleep in that creepy, zombie eyed stupor.

"Take five, people." Tony announces, getting to his feet and stretching. A number of clicks make him wince and his back throbs. Too much time sitting at his desk. He flops onto the floor under his desk, hearing Ziva follow his lead. He assumes that McGee chooses to sleep at his desk instead, probably getting keyboard imprints on his face again, Tony thinks blearily.

He's back to staring at his computer a little over two hours later, chasing cobwebs out of his brain and trying to remember to bring more toothpaste into work when he next does a grocery run, the tube in his desk is nearly out.

He changes his shirt for a fresh one, grimacing at the smell. Well, a fresher shirt anyway. He shakes himself, trying to jolt a spark of inspiration forcibly into his brain. That or just attempting to fire up all the engines.

He grabs the reports in a messy heap in his desk and shoves them onto the floor in front of his file cabinet and flexes his hands.

Right. From the top. He goes through the information from the beginning, just in case they missed something, just in case something jumps out at him.

"I do not think there is anything further to do. There are some cases that cannot be solved." Ziva says, her hands coming down onto her desk with a thump.

"Is that so, Officer David?" Gibbs asks. Ziva meets his stare evenly.

"Yes. Sometimes missions do not go how we would wish and we have to remove ourselves from the situation because there is nothing we can do." She says calmly, only the way her knuckles have gone white where she is clenching his fists at her sides gives away the fact she is a seething roil of emotions below the surface.

The silence gets heavier and Tony can feel it press against his skull. Itchiness jitters under the skin of his hands and his fingers twitch involuntarily. The silence turns leaden, McGee's eyes flicker between Gibbs and Ziva, nervous. Something has to give.

Tony slams his draw shut, all heads turning to him as he dons his badge and gun.

"Going somewhere DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks, an edge to his voice that Tony hasn't heard in a while. Something about this guy has really gotten the Boss's goat. Probably because their dead petty officer has a couple of kids. Gibbs is never rational when kids are involved; it's a quirk Tony works around, like Tim's fear of heights and Ziva's pet hate for Bambi.

"Gonna talk to the wife again, boss." Tony informs him, coming up with it on the spot. Nothing about her says she knows anything about the murder but there is never any harm in double checking and besides, getting out of the building can only do him some good at the moment.

"How can you think the wife is to blame?" Ziva asks, frustration leaking out her very pores. "She is a woman clearly bulled by her husband and not linked to the murder in any way."

"Cowed, Ziva, the term is cowed. Or bullied, both work." Tony corrects, slinging his backpack on.

"Go with him, David." Gibbs orders, disinterested when he realises that no new insight has struck Tony, just that he is going back over evidence for a single scrap of anything that could get them somewhere on the case.

"Come on boss, I don't need a babysitter." Tony says, mouth moving ahead of his brain until Gibbs' stare cold cocks him. "Of course, who could resist the excellent company offered by the lovely Miss David?" He offers Ziva a charming grin as they move, garnering an eye roll. McGee watches their escape with visible envy, Tony waves at him, waggling his fingers as the doors of the elevator close.

"What do you wish to gain from this pointless endeavour?" Ziva asks, cutting across three lanes of traffic, ignoring the horns of protest and giving him a gimlet glare.

"Eyes on the road!" Tony yelps, peeking out from between his fingers. She yanks impatiently at the wheel and the car jerks along with the remains of Tony's stomach. He is never ever getting into a car with Ziva driving again.

(He chooses to ignore the fact that Ziva had used her ninja fingers to jab him in certain vulnerable places - he isn't ticklish - in order to steal the keys from him in the first place.)

"I am an excellent driver. It is the rest of you Americans who cannot handle the road." Ziva says seriously. This is just one example of why she absolutely terrifies Tony. A strangled whine escapes his throat.

"You sound like a mice that has just been trodden on." Ziva informs him sweetly, slinging the car to a halt in a suburban road just outside the address of their murderer's house. Tony scrambles out of the car, thankful for the solid ground beneath his feet, and pulls a face at her back.

"Mouse, singular." He corrects sourly, patting his stomach, just to check it is still there and isn't bouncing on the beltway. He glances at the driveway, empty of the perp's car, like expected. It is quarter till nine and the guy has work.

"Mrs Vasselli, may we have a moment of your time?" Tony asks, pasting on a smile that usually gets him one of two things, an invitation into someone's bedroom or a slap in the face. Mrs Vasselli just blinks at him, her greasy hair hanging limply around her thin, pallid face. She's wearing a bathrobe that hangs off her. It's probably her husband's.

"Of course." She says eventually, as though speaking through thick treacle. She steps aside to let them in.

Tim and Ziva had been the ones to talk to Mrs Vasselli earlier in the case, Tony had only heard about her second hand, and he can tell instantly why Ziva was frustrated by his 'wild geese chase'. Mrs Vasselli knows nothing about the murder; she probably didn't even know her husband was interrogated last week. Tony doubts she knows today's date.

They each take a seat in the sitting room, Ziva and Tony on the sofa while Mrs Vasselli perches on an ottoman.

"Sofia, can I call you Sofia?" Tony asks, voice soft and low. Ziva tilts her head, shifting, unsure; she hasn't heard him use this voice before.

Mrs Vasselli, Sofia, stares blankly at him. She doesn't care one whit what he calls her. Tony leans back in his seat and surveys the room. It is neat, tidy, no detritus scattered about. The place is ordered to the point of being sterile; the only thing that makes it any different from a hotel room is the thin layer of dust building up on the nearly empty shelves and the top of the TV. For a woman who works part time and who barely leaves the house it is unsettling.

There are three photos in frames up on the wall. One of Sofia and her murderous husband getting married, another of them at a beach in Florida and one of a group of guys Tony doesn't recognise. The Sofia in the pictures looks softer, more flesh to her bones, a healthy flush to her face and she's even smiling. In short she looks nothing like the limp dishrag of a woman living and breathing in front of him.

(When a picture has more life than reality, well, Tony can't stop the all the movies involving zombies run through his head in glorious Technicolor.)

"Sofia, can you take me through an average week? What you do each day, habits, that sort of thing?" He asks, again pitching his voice down, looking at her with earnest wide eyes. Slowly she runs through an average week, talking in a monotone and without even a single shred of curiosity as to why NCIS is questioning her.

"Thank you, that's really helpful." Tony says, lying through his teeth, shifting his legs and kicking his feet. His foot brushes against something underneath the couch and he wriggles enough to dislodge it, careful to not act too strangely as to alert Sofia.

It's an empty bottle of vodka. He takes another look around the drab, soulless room. Probably not the only empty bottle stashed away, he discretely draws Ziva's attention to it. He coughs.

"You mind if I get a glass of water? I think I might be coming down with something, my throats been dry all day." Tony asks, pulling out the doleful little boy act he's had down to pat since he was five. The fact it still works for him though he's in his thirties is something Tony chooses not to think about too deeply.

"Glasses are above the sink." Sofia says listlessly.

"Thanks." Tony flashes a smile to no avail.

The kitchen is similar to the lounge, stark and...unlived in. The only thing wrong with the scene is the knife block. All of the knives are tipped out on the counter. He counts them, there is one missing.

Tony returns with a drink, placing the water in front of Sofia. As he leans over her shoulder to put the glass on the coffee table he catches a glimpse down her robe. His jaw tightens without his input and he pretends he hasn't seen anything. Hasn't see the livid blue marks on her stomach, the sickly green of a fading bruise on her left breast.

Ziva straightens, glancing round automatically for a threat; something about his posture gives him away. He ignores her for now and sits down on the floor by Sofia's feet, her bare toes almost purple in the chill.

"I'm going to record our conversation, alright?" Tony says quietly, switching on the small device that looks like an mp3 player.

"Sure." Sofia agrees vaguely. Tony doesn't think she's heard him at all really but he'll take it. He clips the device to his shirt pocket and questions her about inconsequential stuff, prattle to send all thoughts of the recorder out of her head and to try and get her to see him as part of the furniture.

He mentally runs through her file again. Recalling all the information they had dug up, not because she was a suspect but because they couldn't sit around and do nothing. Sofia Vasselli is a part time accountant, works from home, has practically no friends and was always a bit of a loner. Got married at twenty, to a man ten years her senior, when she was working for an office firm. Never went to college. Hospitalised eleven months ago, the official story was that she had taken a tumble down the stairs. She suffered a couple of broken bones, more than a few bruises and a miscarriage.

"I think I left the bath running." Sofia mentions absently. Tony raises an eyebrow at Ziva and she goes off to check.

"A tap at the sink was on." Ziva says once she returns.

"Why haven't you told anyone that he's been hurting you?" Tony slips the question in softly, sliding right past her guard and into the vulnerability beyond. She turns her head to look at him. Her eyes don't even hold a flicker of life.

"What's the point?" She shrugs and even that looks almost painful in the amount of energy it saps from her.

"You don't think people will believe you?" Tony queries, reaching up to grip one of her hands within his own. Now that he is so close to her he can smell the faint hint of mouthwash under her breath. Given her general state of unkempt this show of oral hygiene seems suspect. She probably drank enough to sink a battle ship in order to sleep and paid for it shortly before their arrival.

"I don't think it matters." She says.

"Even though he deserves to be locked up?" Tony presses, pushing against the vivid purple bruise that is Sofia Vasselli. She looks out the window, she doesn't care.

"Even though he killed your child?" Tony slips the knife in, hating himself as he does it. She goes rigid, a hand coming up to press against her mouth as though to physically shove his words aside.

"He pushed you down the stairs." Tony informs her, his voice still soft as cotton wool. "He shoved you, broke your bones, murdered your child."

A muffled sob escapes the fists pressing against her mouth and she shakes, trembling.

"Stop." She implores, hands shaking from more than alcohol withdrawal.

"He did. It's his fault. He pushed you down the stairs and your baby died. Didn't he? Didn't he."

She stares, locked in place by his vicious words.

"Was it a boy or a girl?" Tony asks and Sofia collapses, her tears ruining his zegna shirt. He's never cared less about the state of his clothes.

#

Tony helps Sofia dress, a cotton t-shirt, sweat pants and a worn hoody.

Sofia sits on the bed like a doll, lifting her arms when directed. Ziva stands in the corner, her dark eyes watching, waiting. Tony avoids her gaze. Sofia runs her fingers over her hairbrush; Tony reaches over and takes it from her, running it through her hair with gentle motions. Slowly, methodically he untangles each and every knot, careful not to pull or tug, Sofia has suffered enough. He ties it in a loose braid, the thick, lank hair slipping through his fingers with careless ease.

He kneels at her feet and takes the shoes and socks offered by Ziva and slides them on, smoothing over the arch of her foot and the bony ankle.

"Come on." He says, bundling her in a coat and leading her out of the house and into the car. He sits with her in the back and lets Ziva drive them back to the navy yard in silence.

Every time he looks up, he catches Ziva's eyes darting back to the road. Her mouth is pinched in the peculiar way she pulls it when she is...concerned.

#

It's a bad day.

Tony can tell because the maid came out the room with her face all pinched, because the flowers are on the floor and not in their vase, the vibrant yellow irises staining the deep and succulent mahogany floors.

It's a bad day because she's smiling.

He steps in quietly, avoiding the shards of porcelain on the floor and settles beside her on the chaise lounge.

"Anthony." She says, her fingers twisting in his hair. He winces at the tug but doesn't pull away, better she plays with his hair than something sharper, like the smashed up vase.

"Mother."

"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" She says gesturing vaguely to the window. The sky is a dull grey, rain is threatening. She reaches out with a clumsy manoeuvre to grasp the martini glass on the bedside table and downs the pale green drink. Tony wrinkles his nose, he's tried her drinks before and they tasted really nasty. Bitter and sour and burnt a path down his throat.

"Why don't we go enjoy the sun?" He says, playing along with her. He roots around the room for a pair of her slippers and lifts her feet into them before leading her past all the sharp bits on the ground.

"That sounds lovely." She murmurs, her navy silk robe slipping off her pale, creamy, shoulder. She's playing the strong and silent queen today, Tony plays her loyal courtier.

"Come on." He says, leading her carefully down the stairs and chattering about his day at school, his stories getting more and more outlandish every time she stumbles.

#

"We are no closer to pinning the guy for murder." Tony says, keeping his eyes on Sofia who is sitting at one of the free desks, fingers idly twitching around a pen. Tony has to keep double checking to make sure it isn't a knife.

She hasn't said a word since her crying fit. It seems along with the tears went the last dregs of her strength. He keeps waiting for her to crumple to the ground, marionette strings cut.

"You think?" Gibbs' voice lacks the bite it held just a couple of hours ago.

"Get a warrant to put surveillance on the house and we will get him for spousal abuse. I spoke to the hospital; they've documented Sofia Vasselli's injuries more than once because they suspected abuse." Tony says. Sofia stops spinning the pen and just stares at the wall blankly.

"It will only get him a few years max." Gibbs points out, frustrated.

"Gives us a few years to dig up more clues." Tony shrugs, knowing that it is unlikely that they will ever pin Sofia's husband for the murder of the petty officer.

"Yep. McGee's getting the warrant. We'll have to tell her, though." Gibbs nods to Sofia. She had stopped crying sometime during the car ride to NCIS but the tear tracks stand out on her wan face. It must be itchy by now and Tony's sure that she must have a horrendous headache.

"She won't care." He murmurs.

"I got that." Gibbs takes the pen from Tony's hand and puts it on the desk to quit his fidgeting. Tony flexes his hands before tucking them under the desk.

"I'll take her home." Tony gets to his feet, flexing his feet within the confines of his shoes and shrugs on his jacket.

"Hey, we'll get the dirtbag." Gibbs says, patting his shoulder.

"Yeah." Tony agrees quietly. He doesn't care one whit about the murderer.

"Hey!" Gibbs says sharply, responding to something in Tony's face, revaluating. Tony blinks at him then cracks a grin. His face feels like it is splitting at the seams, porcelain mask cracking.

"I know, boss, you wouldn't settle until the guy is behind bars." He says, all grins and easy bonhomie. Gibbs raises an eyebrow looking somewhat alarmed.

"McGee, grab the devices and go with DiNozzo to the house, set up the surveillance. We're going to nail the bastard."

Tony can feel Gibbs' contemplative eyes on his back as he leaves.

#

Tim works in the background, putting up the minute cameras in little nooks and crannies no one would think to check.

Tony talks Sofia into having a bath, running the water to warm but not enough to scald her chilled skin. He rolls up his sleeves and gently runs shampoo through her limp hair. Sofia sits in the bath, tilting her head when directed but otherwise just passively lets the water brush against her body.

He rinses the suds, careful to avoid her eyes. She runs a cloth over her arm, picking at the weave with nails that haven't been trimmed in a while. He decides it would be best not to trim them; she probably doesn't need the temptation of a sharp object within grabbing distance.

He drains the bath, practically lifts her out then pats her dry with a towel, wrapping her in a warm bathrobe that has been resting against the heater.

He's just turning off the hair dryer, letting Sofia's hair fall around her face naturally, when Tim gives a quiet huff of breath to catch his attention without startling him.

"The cameras are set up." Tim says, eyes flickering between Tony and Sofia uneasily.

"Well done McGee." Tony smiles, deftly rolling a sock up Sofia's left foot then doing the same for the right.

He would almost feel better if she flinched at his touch; reacted in some small way...he's just washing a body, whatever made Sofia human has left an empty shell behind running through the motions.

He wonders if Ducky ever feels like this when he deals with all the bodies that come his way.

"We'd better leave; he's due back in quarter of an hour." Tim warns quietly. Just entering the house seems to sap people of their voice. Tony nods.

"Sofia, we're leaving now, shall I turn on the TV for you? I think there is a showing of Pride and Prejudice this evening." Tony says, turning on the TV and setting up the channel, he's right. The old film is playing. He pours her a drink of vodka cut with lemon, just how she likes it, and they leave.

Tim is silent most of the drive back to NCIS, another team is doing the surveillance tonight, Gibbs has given them the evening off to de-stress. Tony thinks he would actually prefer having monitoring duty tonight, it feels like he is abandoning his post leaving Sofia.

"You've done that before." Tim states as they pull into the garage.

"Done what, McGee? I've done a lot of things. Probably more things than you've ever dreamed of." Tony smirks, the expression feeling oddly stiff although he is sure it looks the same as ever to anyone else.

But Tim doesn't clarify, just silently parks and leads the way to their desks.

#

They get a new case the next day. It isn't surprising. Working at NCIS may mean that Tony constantly feels lucky to only have one active case at a time but it doesn't mean they have any free time to waste either.

When lunchtime arrives Tony slips out the building and drives to the house that is rapidly feeling more familiar to him than his own apartment. Which reminds him, he really needs to take in his mail.

Sofia is sitting where he left her and he would think that she hadn't moved except for the fact she is wearing pyjamas today and has a small file in front of her which she is steadily working through. It looks like numbers, a lot of them. Tony doesn't bother to look in closer, math scares him.

He sits with her and they watch an old western full of derring-do and complete a crossword. Well, Tony completes a crossword, talking out loud as he works through the clues.

He's taken more than an hour for lunch by the time he returns to his desk but Gibbs doesn't say anything about his absence.

#

Ziva and McGee have surveillance duty the next night.

Tony finds another empty vodka bottle under the couch when he splits his sandwich with Sofia and he tosses it into the trash.

Abby keeps ambushing him with hugs whenever he makes his way down to her lab.

Someone keeps putting doughnuts on his desk when he isn't around. Tony suspects Tim despite the lack of sprinkles until he, quite by chance, catches sight of Jimmy leaving the squad room with sugar crusted fingers.

Tony knows what they are doing. He can't quite tell why though. No, he knows why, it's just...he hasn't been acting any different to usual. He grins, jokes about, fires spitballs into Ziva's hair (and, once, by accident into Gibbs' coffee), he throws an empty bottle of superglue into Tim's bin just to watch him get increasingly twitchy as the day goes on and he can't find whatever Tony has supposedly glued.

He won't for a while, not until he realises his chair wheels aren't actually stiff but stuck.

He keeps visiting Sofia in his lunch breaks and he pretends not to notice the new bruises, some of them from clumsy movements when she is drunk, the rest of them...not.

#

"Very Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo, who may I ask is calling today?" Tony picks up his phone and doesn't recognise the number. "I'll tell him." He hangs up without his usual phone courtesy.

"Boss, that was Yurt's team. Sofia and Vasselli had an altercation. They're both being taken to emergency now. Apparently the cameras caught just about everything." Tony explains, knuckles going white as he locks his gun and badge into his desk draw. If he has even the slightest feeling that he might be off the rails then he goes around without a gun.

Gibbs always curses him for it and threatens to kick him off the team but Tony has locked up enough murderous bastards not to want to join their ranks. (He's also arrested people sobbing and crying, wailing that they didn't mean to, that they never meant to hurt anyone.) Besides, they are going to hospital; they aren't chasing up a hot lead.

He still has his ankle holster.

"I'm driving." Gibbs declares, watching as Tony tosses the key to his draw into his pocket. Tony is aware that Gibbs only said that to make it clear that he is going with Tony, that at the moment he doesn't trust Tony to have Tim or Ziva's backs. It's fair enough, Tony wouldn't trust himself either.

The drive is mostly silent. Tony makes idle patter about nonsensical things, a run of the mill western, the weather, the state of the roads the usual stuff he can churn out without a care and almost always guaranteed to set Gibbs' back up. Gibbs doesn't have much tolerance for small talk.

They are just turning off the main road when Gibbs speaks.

"Your mother suffered from depression." It isn't a question. When Gibb says it, it is a statement of fact.

"Probably. There was a whole host of labels people could stick to her." Tony says flippantly, tracing a finger through the condensation on the window.

"She drank." Gibbs states, after a lull, like he was just waiting for Tony to relax before he lets the other shoe drop. Manipulative bastard. It's probably one of the reasons why they get along so well.

"With that kind of money, everyone drinks." Tony tucks his hand underneath his thigh. It's only a small exaggeration. Tony can't actually recall many particulars of the numerous soirees he had to attend dressed in his finest and instructed to be on his best behaviour. (The moment anyone said that it was inevitable that he would screw up.)

All he remembers is snippets, glasses filled with ruby rich wine catching the light; gleaming chandeliers and always, a new silk dress, her neck glittering with the stones his father liked to shower on her.

"Sailor suits?" This time it is a question; Gibbs is redirecting his thoughts, jumping tracks in the conversation and actually bringing up something Tony has mentioned in passing. It's Gibbs' subtle way of lightening the mood.

"Hmm. They made her laugh." Tony comments, breathing on the window just so he can scrub through the previous picture and start anew.

"Yeah, I think I would have laughed too." Gibbs' lip quirks up just a little at the corner. "Louis XIV?"

"Don't even mention that." Tony fakes a shudder of horror. "You know that was what got her locked onto Dracula. She dressed all in white, got some costume fangs and make-up and used to sneak into my room at night to make me scream. I was terrified for months every time the bed curtains twitched." Tony shakes his head and can't stop the smile bringing up his lips.

"Sounds cruel." Gibbs opinions quietly, eyes opaque.

"She was lonely and knew I would come to her bed if I was scared enough." Tony sighs, watching a drop of condensation run down the window, right through the middle of his parachuting stick figure. He scrubs it out.

Gibbs parks the car but doesn't make a move to get out. It is dark out; the street light illuminates the space between them but leaves Gibbs' face in shadow. Tony can't tell what he's thinking.

#

It's funny, when Sofia is lying in a hospital bed in a coma; she somehow seems more alive than ever. Less like a wooden doll and more like she might awake any moment with, perhaps not a smile, but something along those lines.

The camera footage had been damning. Vasselli was going down for attempted murder, spousal abuse, assault and battery at the very least.

What seems to be the surprising element is that Sofia provoked the exchange. Tony had to clench his hands tight enough that his neatly maintained nails dug deep and bit into his skin, leaving stinging gashes, when she parroted his words from their first meeting.

She said it was his fault their son was dead. That he was a murderer.

Tony couldn't-

He-

Sofia apparently spent that whole evening getting under Vasselli's skin, picking at him the way only someone who knows you inside and out can. Right up until he snapped and she took a tumble down the stairs.

Yurt and his team took that moment to gate crash, apparently, in the ensuing struggle to arrest Vasselli and make sure an ambulance was called for Sofia, Vasselli slammed his face into the wall, several times if Tony guesses correctly. Right in the cameras blind spot.

He makes a mental note to remember how little Agent Warren tolerates abusers for mental reference.

"This was a much better movie, you know." Tony says as he closes the book with a sigh. Reading has never been his favourite leisure activity. And he didn't like the Time Travellers Wife in either iteration but the stack of books in the hospital is woefully lacking in good literature. It seems to be where the reject books go, all the romances that make Tony want to set it on fire.

"Not that that says much. It really isn't my cup of tea. Give me thriller suspense or action any day." He notes the page number and returns the book to the case in the hall.

There is a piano in the communal room. It's old, the keys stick and it is so out of tune that it physically pains him. He wanders over to it and presses down a note that should be an A but is closer in pitch to a B flat.

One of his visits he will sit down and play, letting the gummy keys stick and ruin the rhythm of the piece, maybe lose himself a little in the music.

He pats the aged wood, stained with numerous cups of coffee and leaves.

Once he is outside the hospital he switches his phone back on and sees he has several missed calls from Ziva and Tim. He presses a button.

"Hey probie, what's shaking?" He asks and lets Tim's voice wash over him as he details the new case.

#

It is totally my headcanon that Tony's mother was one of those larger than life characters who never quite has two feet on the ground and whose actions are suspect to the outside eye. A character who is wonderful and playful one day then a total stranger the next; selfish and broken.

Also, for the record, this is not meant to imply that DiNozzo senior was abusive to his wife. But take it however you want.


End file.
